Read Me

First, read me.
The words
of myself, the words
conveyed in my
body, wound
in the tendrils of
my flesh, the codes
carved in my teeth
like hieroglyphs, my
bones, my hair
spells them out.
Read the novel inside of my
mouth, the alphabet
body has arranged itself, its
shapes conceived of an
ocean, a marriage, a laughter, the
swimming man and his
orchestra, fingerprints like
letters, the water song that they explain.

I enciphered these skins
as I released you,
wrapped them in the gauze
of our sleep
that encased us. And now you are out,
and now they remain permanently on you
like eyes on the wings of a moth.
Did you conjure these
teeth beneath the lips?
One-by-one romantically
like the keys of typewriters?
Did you conjure these notes upon my skull?
Stamped them out on the
bright area of your cheek. Pressed them,
and made a copy. Who invented the language of
ourselves?
She sleeps and the letters move, see.
The dream of them floats boldly to the surface,
a jellyfish, a turtle,
and only uncovers its eyes.
The light it emits enters the room and
shifts like shadows on the ceiling,
and all of it
circles the wise mirror.